If I were to grate and grade my mind for errors, I would try to write a new understanding of it, placards and indices indicating its species was on its way to classification and bifurcation another nation split up into categories and gory lines and storylines and Tory hides and give and take a few other things worth mentioning-
to tell truths that need be told, that the world was old and demanded order again amidst the bilingual chaos of our voices trying to speak around each other
in some kind of seismic strand of thought that nobody but ourselves and others could resist standing underneath in silence.
Shhh little baby, there is a better way to endure the static bells of monasteries,
the monetary spells and tributaries of spirit spilling outward.
It's shame that shrivels up the mind the way a raisin left under some hydroponic lamp,
listens to the violets and voices, stains the pine- sol air with wrinkles.
An intrinsic frigidity overwhelms you.
The streetcar moans in a scraping solitude -
it's 6 am and nobody is in transition except for you, melting and feverish to start another day.